Something Strange
by Baby Morrison
Summary: There is something strange going on, and Crowley intends to find out exactly what. Slash, eventually


Title: Something Strange

Rating: PG (for language and what's maybe to come)

Summary: There is something strange going on, and Crowley intends to find out exactly what.

There were birds singing in the trees and that annoyed him even more than it usually would have. There was something very obviously _wrong _with the world and he was at a loss as to what, exactly, that might be.

But no matter. He was going to get to the bottom of it.

He was speeding down the freeway -- More accurately, _the Bentley_ was speeding down the freeway, as Crowley had quite forgotten to keep his hands on the steering wheel while pulling out his hair -- towards Soho. He arrived in about five minutes, and, having slammed to a halt mere millimetres from the dusty front window of Aziraphale's bookshop, flung himself from the car. The sign on the door claimed that the shop was closed, but Crowley begged to differ. He miracled -- well, not quite -- the door open and marched up the stairs into the flat above the shop. Aziraphale was calmly baking something while simultaneously brewing a pot of tea. He was wearing an _apron_. And oven mitts. With kittens on them. Crowley thought he felt cavities forming in his teeth.

"You could have rung the bell, you know," the angel said calmly, pouring two cups of tea and handing one to his uninvited guest.

"Angel, what exactly have you been up to?"

"Well, I've just found a lovely first edition of _Salome_. It's in a public library in Chelsea at the moment." The angel did not say, 'but not for long,' but the gleam in his eyes said it for him.

"Don't you dare avoid my question, you bastard!" Crowley fumed. Aziraphale looked confused, but let the demon go on. "You've violated the Arrangement and I want to know how and why!"

"Crowley, dear, I've done no such thing," Aziraphale said, hurt creeping into his voice. "Whatever would make you think that I had?"

"How about the fact that, since last week, no matter where I go, there are bloody _birds_ singing, and people are just a little bit _nicer_, and I haven't seen a single child drop its ice-cream or scrape its knee or even fall into a mudpuddle, nor have I seen even _one_ automobile accident, or plane crash, or...or...or cruise ship sinking. You've been doing a bunch of bloody good deeds without doing any for my side as well or even bothering to _tell me_ that you were doing them so I might be able to balance them out!"

"Crowley, I can't account for all the good done in the world. It's simply not my fault and, well..." Aziraphale blushed, suddenly _very_ interested in stirring his tea, "I simply haven't done anything in weeks...I've been too-- erm...intent on that first edition."

This was when the metaphorical gears in Crowley's head started turning.

_Click._

Angels, even those who have been on Earth for millennia, slowly growing less divinely enthusiastic, are pretty much incapable of lying, or at least, in Aziraphale's case rather terrible at it.

_Click._

Aziraphale is not the only supernatural agent on Earth.

_Click._

The good things had been happening all around _Crowley_; wherever _Crowley_ went, there were wonderful things taking place.

He had to be sure.

"Aziraphale?"

"What is it Crowley?" The angel's tone was curt, offended. But the birds were still singing outside.

"You haven't..._noticed_...everything that's been going on, have you?"

"All I've noticed is a very rude demon sitting at my kitchen table-- Oh dear!" The oven was smoking. Aziraphale jumped up from the table and flung the oven door open, trying in vain to save the flaming muffins. Tossing his oven mitt down in a huff, he turned on Crowley. "Crowley," he said icily, "this is entirely _your fault_. My whole day has gone to Hell in a handbasket because of you. Now would you kindly get out?"

Crowley nodded glumly and pushed his chair in, making his way for the door, shoulders slumped.

Aziraphale turned back to the stove, preparing to clean up the mess.

The muffins were fine. In fact, they were perfect. Golden brown and _perfect_.

Aziraphale had most definitely _not_ done that.


End file.
